


Embracing the Future

by HerAwesomeShinyness



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Luthien and Daeron are Siblings, Sibling Love, Weird Maia Magic, little brothers are idiots and we love them anyway: the fic, lots of hugging, the romantic relationships are background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 10:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20387881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerAwesomeShinyness/pseuds/HerAwesomeShinyness
Summary: Luthien wasn't convinced about the idea of having a younger sibling, but when she first lays eyes on the new baby, she decides to love and cherish him forever.Despite everything, she keeps that promise.





	Embracing the Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elvntari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/gifts).

> Based on/inspired by [this art](https://em-cu.tumblr.com/post/187237770146/always-weak-for-hugs) by Em, who is the best

"Luthien?" Her father asks, out of the blue. She didn't even hear him walk in. "Would you like to meet him?"

"Him?"

He smiles at her, and bends down to ruffle her hair. "Yes, him. You have a little brother now, sweetling."

She doesn't know what she'd been expecting, to be honest. They'd told her she'd be getting a baby sibling. Maybe she's tired, she's been waiting for a few hours now to see, and it's been so dreadfully boring, and the chair she's on is so comfortable. It's amazing she didn't fall asleep, really.

Ada also looks tired.

"I'd love to meet him," she says, standing up, "is he cute?"

He chuckles, and takes her hand. "Just as cute as you were when you were born."

"That's not a yes."

He laughs again, and they walk into the room, where her mother is holding the baby in her arms, making little lights appear in front of him.

She's seen babies before, she knows they look kind of weird. It's just she thought maybe the captain's son was particularly weird, or maybe she's remembering wrong. He's barely younger than her after all, she only vaguely remembers seeing him.

Still. Her brother looks _really _weird.

It's not just that he's wrinkly and red and way too tiny and with a kinda squished head, little Mablung had looked like that too, he's... unfinished.

There isn't even a single hair on his pointy head, not black like hers and Naneth's usually is, not silver like Ada's, not even another colour. He's just smooth and weirdly shiny. She had hoped that maybe he'd have horns like how she and Naneth do, but she realises now that that would've been dumb. No animal is born with horns, why should elves? And she knows that having this particular shape, with the horns and the hair and everything, is a choice. Maybe he'll get it later.

Still. Underneath the pinkness and the weird wrinkles, the baby is just as white as she is, but without the silvery tones her skin has, or the freckles, or even a_ hint _of Ada's light beige-y colour.

Unable to resist any longer she stops trying to stay at a safe distance and puts her hands on her mother's knees to see closer, and is rewarded as the baby gets lowered a bit, closer to her.

"Has he got a name?" she asks, as she hunts for any familiar features in his strange baby face.

Her mother chuckles a bit, not really tired, not the way Mablung's mother had been when she'd met him, even though the captain had had a lot more time to rest by then, and runs a long, softly glowing finger along her brother's cheek.

"We were thinking of calling him Daeron," she says.

"That's pretty."

It's certainly way prettier than he is.

His big black eyes, all black, empty, stare up at her. It's like he's staring into her soul. Well, he could be. Couldn't he? She's not completely sure how babies work, but she's not supposed to know so it's fine.

Then, just as she's about to reach out and touch him, the baby–Daeron–makes a face, his cheeks, so teeny tiny, scrunching up and catching the light strangely.

When he relaxes again, just a few seconds later, she hasn't even managed to start worrying, there's a smattering of dark silver freckles where his cheekbones probably are, and across the bridge of his nose. Just like hers.

That's, that's adorable.

Her finger is trembling, her whole hand is, as she slowly, as lightly as she can, traces the near invisible patterns on his face, the same she sees in her own mirror every day.

He's ugly and weird and creepy, but also the cutest and most perfect thing ever, somehow.

She wants to hold him and keep him in her arms forever, where he'll be safe and warm and comfortable and close to her. It feels like her heart is going to burst from how warm and full and happy it feels, but in a good way, sort of.

"Do you want to hold him for a bit?" Naneth asks, like she read her mind. She probably did.

Slowly, she looks away from Daeron, and up at her mother. She's smiling, gentle, like she really trusts her to hold the baby.

It's not that she doesn't want to, but he's so small! And she's never held a baby before, only dolls and the occasional animal! What if she hurts him?

"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't trust you with him, Luthien. If you wish to hold him your father will help you do so safely, and you can already start big-sistering."

It is tempting. And if they trust her not to hurt him _and _Ada would be helping her...

And, well, holding babies can't be so hard or there wouldn't be any elves, would there?

She's convincing herself, she knows, not offering any sort of true argument. Oh well. She nods.

"What should I do?"

"Just stay still," Ada says, kneeling down behind her, "and pay attention."

He puts his hands around her wrists, pressing his arms against hers, then, when Naneth carefully reaches over with Daeron, so he's where he would be if Luthien were holding him, wiggling a bit, probably in confusion.

He looks so tiny and innocent, it's incredible.

While she stares at him, still unable to believe she had ever been so tiny and ugly, her father moves her arms for her, so together they're holding Daeron to her chest the same way Naneth had. Then Naneth lets go, and he taps against her hands.

"Got it? When I let go too, you have to keep holding him like this," he says.

"Alright."

Her voice doesn't shake even a little bit, and neither do her hands. She can do this.

Then he lets go, and she can feel all of Daeron's weight in her arms, and for a second she thinks he's going to fall. He obviously has no such fear though, keeping just as still as he had been before, looking up at her with what she can see now isn't blankness, but wonder.

He's warm and soft and heavy, and she wants nothing more than to hold him tighter, squeeze him to her chest and keep him there forever, where he'll be safe.

That would hurt him though, he's a baby, he's fragile, so she doesn't.

Instead she keeps holding him in the light but firm hold Ada showed her, and walks up and down the room humming her favourite songs. Hopefully he'll like music when he's older, so she can keep singing to him.

After a few minutes, though, she feels her limbs getting heavy, and her eyes start burning, and she remembers how tired she'd gotten waiting to meet Daeron.

"Naneth?" she calls, walking back towards her parents, "I'm getting really sleepy, can you take him back?"

She could've held him longer, she thinks as she walks to her room. But not safely, she'd have had to hold him tight. It was best to give him back, and it's not like she could've held him forever, anyway.

When he's older, bigger and not as breakable, however, she'll be allowed to hug him as close as she wants and show him how much she loves him, and he'll love her too.

It’s not that she doesn’t _like_ Daeron. Really it isn’t. He’s tiny and cute and smiles at her when he sees her, he’s wonderful. The best little brother anyone could’ve asked for. It’s just that _she _hadn’t asked for one.

But it’s not like she can tell her parents that, or even worse tell_ him_, not when he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Maybe she could ask if someone else can watch him? At least some of the time, so she can have lessons with her mother more often, like she did before he was born. That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?

“Lulu!”

Ugh. Well it isn’t his fault she doesn’t want to deal with him right now, is it?

She turns around (actually how had he gotten behind her?) and smiles.

“Yes, Daeron? What is it?”

“Lulu!” he shouts again, jumping up and down, “wanna show you a thing!”

“Oh?” She asks, as she reaches for the hand he obviously wants her to take, “What kind of thing?”

“A special surprise thing! I found it!”

Oh dear. Well, there’s no way he could’ve found anything she doesn’t know about already, it’s not like she didn’t explore just as much as him when she was his age. He probably didn’t run into anything cool but dangerous while she very, very, very briefly wasn’t looking at him.

“That sounds great, lead the way,” she says, and lets herself be dragged toward the treeline.

They walk for a few minutes, and _how _did he manage to get away for this long without her noticing, she’s a terrible sister, their parents should never have trusted her to look after Daeron, how can she ever face them again?

“I found it a few days ago,” Daeron is saying, and isn’t that the best thing she has ever heard, “when Ada and I went out together. We were having a nap, and I thought I saw something pretty so I went to look and then I came back and I was sneaking so good he didn’t even notice!”

That’s... certainly something she’s never going to tell their mother. Although she probably wouldn’t be too upset, the forest isn’t dangerous after all. But still. Children weren’t to be let outside alone, that was the_ rules_.

They walk through the forest for another few minutes, Daeron happily humming all the way, swinging her arm in time with his music.

It's moments like these when she understands why everyone thinks her brother is a prodigy. He might not have much common sense (but then again why would he, he's just a little boy) but the memory required to find one's way again is not insignificant, and his musical talent is undeniable.

It's just so hard, not having anyone to brag about him to!

"Ok, now close your eyes," Daeron says, interrupting her musings, "it's a secret surprise, you're not allowed to see it until we're there."

“Very well,” she says, closing her eyes very very lightly. She loves him, but he’s a little boy, not someone who can be trusted to lead her through woods she cannot see. Certainly he’s very sure of himself, because the second he’s certain she can’t see he starts pulling her on a straight path, warning her of any roots in their path, and overall behaving like an experienced guide. She’ll have to ask who he learned from.

He’s humming again, something bouncy and clear like the last drops of a storm falling off the leaves into the river, and every time he stops to warn her he starts the music again in the exact spot he’d left off.

It doesn’t take very long, of course, but she’s still shocked at how far they’ve had to walk to get to this surprise when he tells her to stop and not open her eyes until he tells her to. His voice is glowing with pride at whatever marvel he intends to show her.

The air is clean, fresh, giving no hints to their location beyond a faint breeze carrying the bittersweet scent of pine resin to her. She must be facing north, then, not that that tells her anything. The river is only a distant roar, muffled by the trees even though they can’t be particularly far from it, but there’s another sound...a small brook maybe? It sounds like water, at least—Daeron screams, and a splash resounds in the space around her.

She’s running toward him even before she’s opened her eyes, just in time to dodge over an errant root–pine, just like she thought–that had been in her way. Daeron is lying across a small stream, clearly having just tripped over something, and he’s going to start crying any second. Is he just scared from the fall? Upset at being wet, and his surprise being ruined? Is he actually hurt? Please let it not be that.

“_ Lulu! _ ” He wails desperately, reaching for her, and his eyes start to well up with tears. “Lulu, it _ hurts. _”

“That’s what happens when you fall on rocks, Daeron. Now shush a second, let me get you out of there so I can see what’s wrong.”

He stills, though a few tears still make their glistening way down his cheeks. If he can quiet down long enough for her to maneuver him from the little brook–which is _ cold, _why didn’t he complain about that?–and onto the moss nearby, he’s probably not too hurt, but still. His trousers are ripped, and the skin beyond them is red and angry, though there doesn’t seem to be any blood.

And on top of that, he’s soaked through! He’ll deserve a treat or something later, for how calm and good he’s being.

“Is your knee the only thing that’s hurt?”

“No,” he whispers miserably, reaching out his hands, which are also scraped raw, “Lulu, please fix it?”

“I’ll do something even better, I’ll show you how to fix it yourself. And then I’m going to carry you home, because you shouldn’t stay out wet like that. Is that good?”

“It’s good.” He answers, a slight smile on his lips, though he’s still crying a little.

That's fine. Small children are delicate and prone to crying. It's _ fine _ . She is _ not _going to panic.

Like a competent person who knows what she's doing and isn't panicking–because she isn't–Luthien pulls Daeron into her lap, into a sort of half-hug, and explains the basics of changing his body. It's not that hard, really, the difficult part is doing it consciously. And explaining to other people how it's done.

Thankfully, Daeron is a clever boy, and can actually follow instructions, so it only takes a few minutes before his hands and knee are shiny white and pristine, like nothing had ever happened.

"There you go," Luthien says, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No. Thanks for showing me how, Lulu."

"I'm so proud of you for learning so quickly. And for finding this beautiful place! Maybe tomorrow we can come back and enjoy it properly."

"Yes! You're the best!" He exclaims, and twists in her arms to do his best to crush her in a hug. It doesn't work, obviously, he's so little, but she loves him anyway.

There's beautiful music coming from the forest.

No, that's not an apt description.

There's a soft river of sound coming from the forest. She can feel it moving past her even as she stands still and tries to understand it, clear as the rain upon a windchime, delicate as the thinnest of silks, pure as the coldest underground stream. The tones are dancing around her, as if they are hearing a melody she cannot, and trying to draw her into its hidden whirl.

It is many things.

Mostly it is interesting, curious, calling.

She breathes, once, twice, and closes her eyes.

There, in the dark of her own mind, undisturbed by the stars and the soft glow of the forest, the music itself shines brightly. A river of light coming from deep within the forest, full of colour and life, promising further mysteries and enchantments to anyone who might follow it.

When she opens her eyes again, the river is still there, but different, like a myriad multicoloured fireflies coming towards her as one enormous being, bouncing along the forest floor. A path.

It feels like it's dragging at her clothes, pulling her towards its source. That makes no sense though, a river shouldn't work like—no. Wait. It's not a river, it's music, it doesn't have to follow rules.

In the dark under the trees, the music is everything. It fills every nook in the ground, grows along the grooves in the bark, explodes into bright bursts of energy that nearly seem alive. Flowers, but some she's never seen before. Is this song making flowers bloom even through the sleep of Yavanna? 

The colours keep shifting, blooms growing and fading in seconds in waves of light and beauty and pure joy, spreading across her sight as a smile is spreading across her face.

As she walks deeper and deeper into the woods, the illusion, that's what it is, gets clearer and clearer, until she's walking among softly glowing blue flowers, the deep blue she has always considered her favourite, her legs up to the knees sunk in crystal clear water, bubbling and splashing rhythmically, that feels as real as anything.

Finally, she walks out from under the trees, into a small clearing lit not by the stars, but by two strange lights: one, golden and warm, is spread out, with no clear source, the other, a soft pale glow, centered on a rise in the ground in the middle of the clearing.

Around it, the water is swirling, as clear and perfect as ever, from where it appears, out of nowhere, at the edge of the small mound.

Upon it, the beautiful blue flowers are swaying to the music, apparently absorbing the pale light as their petals open and close in uncanny and mesmerising patterns, always changing, always gorgeous. It's a dance she would like to learn.

Everything about the clearing is conspiring to keep her attention away from its centre, the source of the pale glow, and of the music, but even when she looks at it directly, with intent, she cannot seem to focus on its being. It's a person, she's pretty sure, with a head and two legs and two arms, and they're playing some sort of flute, often taking it away from their mouth and, as the clear tunes of its music persist in the air and in her mind, singing with words she cannot make her mind understand, though she knows she should, weaving the music into new shapes, maintaining and bettering the illusion, the dance.

She wants to dance along with it, but it seems wrong to intrude on this display of skill and power, unfair to try and add to the perfection she is seeing.

Instead she watches, and listens, and waits.

She's not sure how long it lasts, it doesn't seem to matter, but eventually the music begins to wind down, the flowers bowing before dissolving back into particles of light, and joining the water–what used to be the water–into an elegant spiral of pure power, drawing back into the musician, uncaring of how beautiful it looks and yet even more so for it.

When it's gone, the last notes of music still lingering in her ears, she thinks for a moment that she might have gone blind. Both the strange gold light and the pale glow have disappeared, and the starlight seems shy in the wake of the magnificence that just ended. As it should be, she thinks, how could it ever compare?

It only takes a few heartbeats, however, for her vision to adjust again, and there on a small mound in the middle of the clearing–that was real at least, good to know–is Daeron, breathing heavily and looking at her with fear in his eyes.

"Dae," she starts to say, when it becomes obvious he is waiting for her to say something, "Dae, that was...Daeron. I honestly have no idea how to even begin to react."

"But in a good sense?" 

"Daeron, that was the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced, how did you even...?"

He blushes.

"So you know how I said Mablung and I had been going around exploring together?"

She does, in fact she remembers thinking how incredibly adorable it was, and being so happy that her brother was managing to be friends with someone without her having to be there.

"Well," he continues, not looking at her, "I may or may not have convinced him to go along with that tiny little lie so I could practice on my own."

"I, well, I should lecture you about how dangerous it is to lie about where you're going in the forest, but. I mean. We both know it isn't, and that was worth it."

"You think so?" He asks, lighting up with hope. Does he not understand how extraordinary that was? Obviously she's always known he was talented, but she didn't expect this. She couldn't even have imagined this.

"Daeron," she says, "that was so good I can't even begin to word it. I'm willing to beg you to play for me again, there's nothing I wouldn't do to dance to your music just once. You're soamazing."

"Oh? You'd do anything?"

"Yes!"

"Anything anything?"

"Yes, Daeron, because that was the best music that has ever played in this forest or possibly in this world," she explains, with the tone she always uses when he doubts himself, because he's stupid enough to do that.

"Oh. Well, I was going to ask you to give me your dessert until I come of age but that sounds a bit unworthy of your praise now," he says, his eyes wide. He looks like he's about to cry, to be honest.

"I'm very willing to do that, Dae," she says, and, giving up on self control, runs to him and sweeps him up into a hug. He's still shorter than her, probably he always will be, so it's easy to start twirling them around in the closest approximation she can manage of the rhythm of his music.

He notices nearly immediately, and the residual tension in his frame dissolves into laughter, and she's never been so full of pride and love.

Luthien spends the weeks Daeron is gone in agony.

It's just so unfair. So stupid! Their father even admitted that yes of course, the Teleri and the Noldor had been friends of old, and yes of course he personally had been very close with Finwe, the father of their current King, and yes of course he trusted Nolofinwe, Fingolfin, and yes of course he trusted the Noldor as a whole, and yes of course he thought Daeron would be safe with only a small escort.

But no. It wouldn't be safe for Luthien herself to go.

She wasn't sure whether it was more of an insult to herself, to her brother, or to the Noldor, but whatever it was it was terrible and terribly unfair.

Especially when he spent those weeks going on and on about "it's a disgrace that Fingolfin thinks he has a right to call a feast" and "probably he will never show sufficient honour and respect to your brother, he doesn't deserve to even see you" and so on and so forth. And her mother didn't even say anything about it! She didn't disagree with him, she didn't agree with him, she didn't even do that little nod and smile she does when she thinks he's being unreasonable but not so much she feels the need to tell him so! And she couldn't even complain to Daeron about it.

So yes, maybe she did spend most of those weeks sulking in her room, but she had every right to.

In the same way their father has no right to be talking to Daeron and poor Mablung like this.

"So what you're saying," he sneers across the dinner table, on the evening of their return, "is that you had _fun_."

Daeron, who had been happily chattering about their cousin Finrod, his quick wit, and his skill at improvisation, falters.

"I, well, yes," he stammers, "the—the power of novelty is very great, even political grandstanding disguised as a party can be very fun."

"Hmm. And what about you, Mablung, what do you think of the Noldor's "novelty"?"

Mablung freezes. He's used to being around the family, of course, but he doesn't usually have to deal with their father when he's in a mood, and he's never been a good liar.

"To be quite honest, your Majesty," he starts, "to be quite honest, I don't think very much about it. I wasn't paying much attention to their entertainment, only to prince Daeron. I felt that since I had been honoured with the duty to guard him, I should do my best."

Meaning, if she has to guess, that Daeron spent so much of his time there showing off that it was impossible to lose sight of him. Which is fair, she would've done the same if she'd been allowed to go.

"_Really._"

"Well, yes. I mean, it was different, certainly, but I am used to, huh, new situations, in a way that perhaps Daeron isn't."

"We might well be the most sheltered people on the continent, Ada," she says, "and usually that's a good thing, but it's not Dae's fault that this time it meant he was entertained by whatever it is the Noldor tried to charm everyone with."

"It would have been best if Daeron had not gone," her mother says, the first time she has spoken since the conversation started, "you should have sent Celeborn, he must have gained some experience in dealing with them by now."

"I should have, you're right, my love, but we have all heard of Maglor Feanorion by now, and it would've been an insult to our people not to prove his inferiority. And perhaps an insult to the Noldor not to send someone if appropriate status, which Celeborn does not quite reach."

Daeron blushes the instant he hears the name Maglor, and suddenly Luthien wants nothing more than to have him in her room and get the whole story out of him. But she can't. Yet.

Their father, thankfully, doesn't seem to have noticed.

"How did that go, by the way? Did he live up to the rumours?" He asks, archly.

Daeron fidgets with his plate for a few seconds before answering, his eyes fixed on her, and not on their parents, promising to tell her the truth later.

"He_ is _very good. Certainly far better than I would have expected from the Noldor as you describe them. He has a good voice, a definite talent for the harp, and a certain something that just...draws one's attention. I imagine that last one is why people think he's so good that he might challenge Luthien or me," he says, frowning, his fingers describing strange shapes in the air that are presumably meant to give more detail to his words, "he even offered some new perspectives on technique, actually, I was very surprised. But all in all, he learned a lot more from me than I learned from him. In fact, I doubt there's much else he could tell me."

"He learned from you?"

"Well, I did perform a few times, and he was in the audience, that's more than enough. And one evening, after I went to watch him out of sheer curiosity, he stopped me after he was done and we had a brief conversation, where he offered those new perspectives I was talking about, and I felt it would be an insult to his admittedly remarkable talent not to offer him something in return."

That was... suspiciously diplomatic. But, it's so diplomatic (and full of Power) that their father finds nothing objectionable in it, and the rest of the meal passes in, thankfully short, awkward silence.

When they get to her room, later, the little monster tries to keep walking. It's cute, how he thinks he can get out of telling her everything, but ultimately futile.

At least he's smart enough not to struggle when she pulls him in her room by the collar.

"So," she says, when they're both seated on her bed, a bowl of dried fruit and a flask of juice sitting between them, "tell me _everything_."

"You know," Daeron says, "if Ada had really wanted to impress the Noldor politically he should've sent you. You're terrifying."

"Aw, thank you. Now stop stalling and get talking."

After a bit more stalling, and half her raisins, Daeron finally starts, because he's terrible.

But the story he tells, oh, it's such a story.

From the excited boredom of travel, to the shining lights that hung everywhere; from the sun reflected in the water, to perfect harmonies under the moon and the stars. He tells her everything, in so much detail she feels like she wasn’t forced to stay behind.

And of course he tells her about Maglor. A force of nature, apparently, full of energy and knowledge and imagination, notes leaking from his every pore. A fountain of wit and inspiration. With every moment she wishes more that she could have met this wonder that has so enraptured her little brother.

No. Well, yes, but mostly what she is feeling is Daeron’s profound (and nearly impossible, they both know) desire to see him again.

She finds herself hugging him, trying to offer some comfort for the loss of a friendship that barely even started, and he’s still so small in her arms, it feels like she can protect him from any other hurt, so long as she’s with him.

“You’re not angry that you didn’t get to come, right?” He asks, in a thin voice.

“Of course not. Well, yes, but not at _ you. _I’m angry I wasn’t allowed to go and see you have so much fun!”

Immediately, he relaxes, his last foolish worries dispelled.

“I’m also upset I didn’t get to see this conversation you apparently had about _ fingering techniques _. That sounds like the funniest discussion ever had in the history of Ea.”

“_ Lulu! _”

She's sitting in her room, mindlessly fiddling with her hair and waiting for Daeron to start some new, chaotic composition, like he usually does when one of his “secret” letters arrives.

He’s late this time, so, purely out of sincere sisterly worry, of course, she moves to press her ear in that spot of the shared wall of their rooms that, she had discovered completely by accident and not through months of trial and error, is slightly too thin, and lets sound through perfectly.

There is a faint sound that could have been a pen, which goes on for a few seconds. Then it stops, replaced by a brief whispered phrase, too quiet for her to make out, then the distinct sound of a head meeting a table. What?

“Oh, _ fuck _,” Daeron says, clearly and distinctly. She probably could’ve heard him even without sitting at her spying post.

Was the letter bad news? Maybe she should go and comfort him.

“_ Fuck. _” He says again. A chair scrapes against the floor, and he starts pacing, still muttering curses.

She’s about to get up and go to his room, to try and relieve his obvious distress, help her baby brother somehow, when the pacing stops, turning into determined steps towards... the door. He’s coming to her.

She jumps away from her listening post and onto her bed, just in time to cheerily invite him in when he knocks.

He looks devastated, and she can't stop herself from running to him and hugging him tightly.

“Daeron, what's wrong? Can I help?” she asks, as he relaxes, somewhat, in her embrace.

“Lulu, I think I'm in love.”

He sounds truly devastated about it, but why would that be? How could love make him feel so horrible? It doesn’t matter. He’ll tell her if he feels like it. She tightens her hug and carefully strokes his back, smoothing down hair that had been frizzing with his emotions.

“Do you want to tell me more?” She asks, when he makes no move to elaborate.

“It’s Maglor.” He says. And of course, it’s Maglor, poor Daeron. How could he not fall for the one person who ever truly challenged him, and who is also very nearly the worst person for him to be with. She had suspected, but really, she would never wish such a tragedy upon her little brother.

“How does he feel?”

It doesn’t matter, not really, not when no one in their right mind would ever allow Daeron to set foot outside Doriath again if this came out, but she needs time to think, and if Daeron realises that Maglor could never feel the same and starts getting over it _ now _, well. That would be ideal.

“I don’t know. He’s my friend, I know that much. Yes, I’m sure. He’s not lying to me about that,” he mutters into her shoulder, like he’s trying to convince himself, “but...”

“It’s alright. For now he’s your friend who you admire deeply, and who certainly admires you in return, yes?”

He nods minutely. Actually he might be crying? No. That won’t do. Just because he’s fallen in love with a handsome man as musically skilled and passionate as him, who is also a kinslayer and lord among kinslayers, and as such the worst possible man he could love, doesn’t mean she will let him cry. She can’t just let him be _ sad _.

“Daeron.” She says. “Go sit down on my bed, cry it out if you want to, and when I get back with tea and cookies you’re going to tell me more, and I will understand why you love him, and then we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon practicing party tricks.”

Getting tea doesn’t take long, not when one can persuade the water to boil faster, but when she returns to her room Daeron is calm, any traces of tears gone from his face, only the barest hint of nervousness in the way he’s pushed himself against the wall.

He still lights up when he sees her enter, though.

“Can I just start talking?” He asks, as soon as she sets her tray down. He’s probably been preparing what to say the whole time she’s been gone, the idiot.

“Of course.”

It doesn’t matter if Maglor loves him back or not, if they can figure out a way to be together without destroying the continent politically, she knows the instant Daeron starts talking that she will stand by him, and do anything she can to help.

It’s what little brothers deserve, after all.

The situation is extremely inconvenient. At least earlier she was alone with the dog, who’s obviously more than he seems, and can carry a good conversation even without talking. Now Call Me Celegorm is sitting with his back to the door, playing with a knife in what he probably doesn’t mean to be an intimidating manner. He doesn't seem clever enough for that, certainly.

Well, he seemed determined to be likeable when he tried to talk to her earlier, maybe he would be amenable to conversation now.

“Umm, Celegorm?” she says, in her best innocently confused tone. His gaze jumps to her, eerily similar to her father's in its radiance. Probably he thinks he’s inviting her to talk.

“You're one of the sons of Feanor, aren't you?” She doesn't wait for his nod to keep talking. “So I guess we have something in common. I'm told one of your brothers is a musician, like mine. Would you tell me about him?”

“Why?”

“Because I'm worried, furious, and bored out of my skull. You could fix the first two, but you won't, so I am asking you to help with the third by engaging in some light conversation about our siblings.”

“Oh. Alright. Well, my only brother who could be called a musician is Maglor, he's the one immediately older than me. He's very kind, when he wants to be, but these days he's mostly upset because he's too busy to compose properly.” He pauses, as if thinking. “Wait. Is your brother Daeron? He's been raving about that guy for decades. With how many letters he's sent him we've all been taking bets on how long it would take until Thingol tried to have him killed for seducing his son.”

His face turns extremely serious, suddenly.

“I really hope I lose that bet, it was obvious he was smitten even before they started corresponding.”

“Was it?” She interrupts, “Good. Daeron's been in love with him for a while now and I would hate to have to hurt him for breaking my brother's heart. He seems nice. Are you sure you're related?”

"I've been told I can be quite charming, actually," he says, and she can't stop herself from laughing. The only charm he might have is brought by magic, not by personality.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, reflexively, "but there is nothing in this world that will make me believe that."

"That's fair," he mutters, smiling a bit, "I was exaggerating. I've mostly been told that if I shut up I can seem attractive. Oh, and that watching me interact with animals can be endearing. Should I try that?"

"Well, I wanted to talk to you, and the only animal you could safely interact with here is a far better conversationalist than you, so it might be for the best if you don't. And of course, I have absolutely no desire or inclination to ever find you charming, attractive, or endearing."

"Ouch."

He doesn't reply though, perhaps acknowledging that she's right, and for a few minutes, the silence feels almost companionable.

"Right," he says after a while, "you wanted to talk. So, Maglor has always been very musically inclined, from what I hear, and around the time I was born, he developed a liking for showing off. Probably to keep getting attention even through the new baby, but I did the same in my time so I can't judge him. It’s all very sweet, really. His first compositions were lullabies for us, and so on. What’s it like, when it’s your younger brother that makes pretty noises?”

“Mostly it means he wouldn’t fall asleep to lullabies because he would be listening to the music so intently. And when he was a little older he’d _ hum _ , and he’d _ whistle _ , and he’d _ tap on things _ , and it was very cute, until one remembers we were sharing a room then. How did you survive with six brothers, that seems absolutely _ impossible. _”

“Personally? I spent a lot of time away from home. Usually in the forest. It was great. Really miss it, actually. Being able to just go and run among green things, and life, and not be afraid you might be attacked, or something might happen in your absence, or anything. Responsibilities are terrible.”

“Oh?”

It’s fascinating how someone known for being a hunter–and thus theoretically capable of being quiet–can just start _ talking _ with only minimal prompting. Maybe it’s a Noldo thing. She had assumed her cousin just had that sort of personality, but—it’s probably a Noldo thing.

“Hmm. You really should just have stayed in your forest. Kept being pretty and singing and dancing without a care in the world.”

“You could have done that too, you know?” She says, more bitter than she intended, but it’s what he deserves.

“What?”

“Stayed in your forest. Kept being pretty and hunting and running without a care in the world.”

Maybe the sing-song mocking tone was too much, she thinks when he jumps to his feet, the contemplative–very nearly sweet–smile on his face dropping into a sneer. The light in his eyes changes, brightens, turns cold and full of menace.

“You think I had a—?” He nearly starts yelling, interrupted by the dog biting into his hand–incredibly gently, especially for such a big creature–and pulling. His face softens somewhat as he looks at him, then he glances back at her, and it becomes harder even than before.

“This is not a conversation we want to continue, I believe,” he hisses, before turning around and leaving. Before he follows, the dog–Huan–turns back to her, some deep emotion in his large black eyes.

The door slams shut behind them, and the lock clicks closed.

Pity. The conversation had been going somewhere interesting.

Maybe it's good it didn't continue, though. She shouldn't have used Daeron as a conversation starter, he doesn't deserve that. How _ could _ he? Yes, he's stupid and has never made a good decision in his life, but why did he choose _ this _ to make the worst one yet? Why?

Could she have prevented this? Gone up to him when he first scowled at Beren–poor, kind Beren, just escaped from impossible torment and forced into even worse ones–and told reassured him. Told him she still loved him, because how could she not love her baby brother

But no. This wasn't jealousy. This was just Daeron trusting their father over her. For the first time in his life, probably.

At least, some part of her thinks, this means even the last vanishing hope he had of ever being allowed to love his Maglor is completely gone.

Certainly he will never manage to leave Doriath again. And if she knows her father, there's little chance he'll be unsupervised long enough for correspondence for a long, long time.

And she won't be there either. Not to distract him, not to play with him, not to console him.

But why would she console him? It's his own fault. It's all his fault.

Because, she realises, he's her baby brother, and she would let him get away with anything. Madly, considering everything, the only thing she wants more than to press him close to her, and tell him he's an idiot, but that it's fine, she loves him anyway, is to be out of here.

That connection she felt the second she met Beren's eyes could be called love at first sight, she knows. But really, love at first sight is what happened with Daeron.

She saw him, and promised she would love him forever. And even now she doesn't want to go back on that.

It's been a long day–a wonderful, happy day, but long nonetheless–and Luthien can't sleep.

Beren has been asleep for some time now, but her thoughts can’t seem to turn off, spinning in circles and circles and circles, like she used to, back when she danced in the meadows of Neldoreth, propelled by-

It’s the first time, she notices in some distant part of herself, that she’s thought about Daeron since...since.

“He left,” her mother had said serenely, some time in those few days between their return and That, “shortly after you did. He was dreadfully unhappy, you know? He will be alright.”

And she’d trusted that. Why is she thinking about him now? It’s not like he wouldn’t deserve it, the little monster, after all she did to keep his precious little crush secret. How could he be stupid enough to think that telling their father was a good idea?

_He left. He was dreadfully unhappy._

He deserved it. She’d been dreadfully unhappy too, before she managed to run away.

And in any case there’s no way he’s unhappy now. He must be overjoyed, to finally have the chance to run off and be free with his kinslayer.

She does miss him, though. If only he could be here, she’d tell him how dumb he is, and make him apologise to Beren, who’d forgive him because he loves her, and she loves her brother, and he’d play for her again, and she’d dance among the trees the way she was meant to, and it would be like when they met, except she wouldn’t be scared.

For a moment, there’s nothing in the world she wants more than to run out, and become a nightingale again, and fly away North, where Daeron has to be, and weep and sing and call for him until she finds him, and then take him home.

But she can’t. As much as her soul aches to change, she has a new body now, one that won’t obey her whims.

“It’s alright, Tinuviel,” Beren mutters beside her, placing a warm arm across her waist, “everything will be well by morning.”

Then he sinks back into sleep, and she can do nothing but follow him.

In her dream, because this is a dream, she can tell, she’s standing in a forest. Not any specific one, not any of the woods she has ever called hers, but an amalgamation of them all, and more besides, trees she can feel must be real somewhere but which she has never seen before.

Then the music starts.

It's like a soft river of sound flowing towards her out of the forest, clear and pure as water, bright as the sun and moon and stars, calling her.

It's familiar to say the least, but it's also new, sadness and grief darkening and slowing the bubbling stream of notes even as she enters it, the glowing blue flowers blooming just as beautiful as ever, but bowing down and losing their petals as the music commands, tears of light scattering along her path.

The reflection of the sunlight on the water makes it seem like even the trees are weeping, in fact, every particle of beauty around her devoted to despair.

Still, she keeps walking.

She had half expected to end up in that clearing again, alone this time, the dream the result of someone–her own mind, her mother, lord Irmo himself–trying to teach her Daeron was gone, forever out of her reach.

But that’s not what she finds.

This is no ordinary clearing, for starters, it’s the great open riverbank before the gates of Menegroth, and there, at the foot of Hirilorn, is Daeron, his flute in his hands as he chases after its last notes with song, beauty that would have made the world bend to his will if this weren’t a dream.

Because this is the real Daeron. The song is new, and she couldn’t have imagined it herself, the appearance is new, obviously himself but wan and dull, and after all, hadn’t she thought about him just before falling asleep?

He stops singing, and looks at her. For a single instant, nothing happens, then he gasps and jumps up, his eyes wide as he runs toward her.

"Lulu!" he gasps, skidding to a halt just out of her reach, "Luthien! Fuck. I'm sorry, I'm the worst brother in existence, you shouldn't have had-"

She takes a step forward and puts a hand on his shoulder, and he shuts up. Idiot.

"I'm sorry." He says again.

"Daeron," she says, both her hands on his shoulders, staring in his eyes, "for once in your life, shut up."

He opens his mouth, probably to apologise again, then thinks better of it–because he _can _think sometimes–and nods meekly.

"I know you're sorry," she says, "I know you. And there's nothing I want more than to know you're horribly sorry for the dumb things you do somewhere you're safe and loved and happy. Please tell me that's where you are?"

He doesn't look at her, and that's answer enough.

"Daeron."

"I'm sorry," he says, still not looking at her, "I just. I don't deserve that. What if I do something stupid again and get someone else I love killed?"

"Then instead of going home or coming to me go live with your Feanorian! He'd be delighted to have you there, he'd love you and keep you safe, it'll be a lot harder for you to get him killed, and if you somehow manage it half the continent will think you're a hero!"

"Lulu, please..." Tears are streaming down his face, and she can't do it. She can't be cruel to him, not to her baby brother. It's not his fault they never had to learn how to make good decisions.

So she takes the last few steps towards him, and carefully hugs him, ready to let go if he truly doesn't want this.

Judging from how quickly he grabs back her, sobbing against her shoulder, he doesn't.

She's not sure how long they stand, him crying, her carefully rubbing his back, but it doesn't matter, not in a dream.

"It really would make me a lot happier if you came and lived with me, you know? Or if you went home, or to Maglor, or really anywhere you're not alone," she says, when she's sure he's done.

"I know. Will it be better if I promise to stay safe, even if I'm alone?"

"I guess." She answers, and the world starts to blur. One of them is waking up. "I love you, Daeron."

"Love you too, Lulu," he says, and hugs her again just as everything goes white, and his arms turn to warm blankets around her.


End file.
